The Stars are also Fire - [Harvest the Stars 02]

by Poul Anderson

  "You're interested in prehistory?" Dagny ventured. "You sure keep a zoo of interests."

  He had a smile that came and went quickly but brightly. "Well, my father is professor of the subject at the University of Bordeaux. Me, I thought I might go into the same science, but then I decided most of the great discoveries in it have been made, and—Fireball was giving us the space frontier."

  She couldn't resist: "Not exactly giving, as Anson Guthrie would be the first to admit."

  He grinned. "Touché! His prices, however, they are no more than the traffic will bear, and we do not have to deal with mole-eyed, lard-bottomed bureaucrats, we can simply pay and go. I envy you that you know him so well."

  She had told him about her past, what parts seemed appropriate, in the course of their developing acquaintance. "I rarely see him any more. He and his wife put me in a good school, and they paid my expenses at the academy, but I had to qualify for it on my own and since I've graduated they've never shown me any partiality."

  "I know."

  She remembered she had already emphasized this to him, and flushed. A gulp of wine lent sufficient assurance for her to dangle bait. "Of course, we've stayed in touch, and I visited them on my last vacation and expect I will again occasionally." With a companion? Better swing the subject back. "We were talking about you, though, for a change. You mentioned something earlier about not having gone directly into your profession."

  "I bounced about." His tone softened. "We had a summer cottage in the upper Dordogne. In my childhood I got so familiar with the local farmers they nicknamed me Jacquou le croquant, Jacques the peasant, from a famous novel. I believed I would become a farmer too, until I found out that technology long ago made the family farm extinct and my friends were just administrators. Besides, my father's work, it soon had more romance for me. But then my mother, she has an export-import business, textiles and artwork, through her I came at age sixteen to spend a year in Malaysia. That made me restless to see more of the world than tourists do, and at age eighteen I enlisted in the French section of United Nations forces." Could an unlucky love affair have given impulse? "We were sent to the chaos in the Middle East—you know, when Europe was establishing the Befehl there."

  "You saw action?" Dagny dared ask, low.

  "Oh, yes," he answered grimly. "Too much. Any amount of combat is too much. In between, I began really thinking. After two years I was wounded badly enough for discharge." So he'd stuck it out that long, having pledged his word, in spite of hating it, and must have been brave, because a man that smart could wangle a rear-echelon assignment if he tried. "The physicians fixed me all right, I carry only some scraps of metal in me and they do not bother. But I was quite ready for civilian life, studies, field work on Earth, my degree, and then, four years ago, a postdoctoral fellowship on Luna."

  As he talked, he cheered up afresh. "Here I am happy," he finished. "True, it is not perfect. Those hours per daycycle in the bloody centrifuge, we could very well do without them, hein? How do you spend that time?"

  "Going through the standard exercises," Dagny said. "Doesn't everybody? Otherwise, read, write letters, watch a show, whatever. In a big unit, I mean. Not much choice on a field platform."

  "On one of those, when I am alone except for a counterweight, I turn off my transmitter and sing," he confessed. "Then nobody else must suffer my voice."

  She laughed. "You see, the necessity isn't a total nuisance!"

  "It is not too bad," he agreed, "not too high a price. When they begin to study Mars and the asteroids in earnest, I would like to go. But there is no limit yet on what is to do here." He regarded her. "Nor, I find, is there lack of good company."

  Her heartbeat refused flat-out the order to quiet down.

  * * * *

  7

  A

  s the ship neared on her approach curve, Luna in the viewscreens shifted from ahead to below, from thickening crescent to dun stoneland scarred with craters. Earth hung high and horned above the south. Silence had grown heavy. Kenmuir cleared his throat. "Well, Barbara," he said, hearing the awkwardness, "it's goodbye—for a while, at any rate."

  "May your meantime be happy," replied the ship. He had ordered a female voice when she spoke with him alone. The Lunarian-accented Anglo sounded friendly, even warm. Valanndray had specified a whistling, birdlike, unhuman timbre for himself. He hadn't said why and Kenmuir had never asked. When all three talked together, the vessel used a neutral male tone.

  "Thank you. And yours."

  The absurdity of it struck at Kenmuir. His mouth twisted upward. What was he doing, swapping banalities with a sophotect? Yes, it was conscious, it thought, but in how constricted a range! By tapping the cultural database, it could give him an interesting conversation on any subject he chose, from the puns in Shakespeare to the causes of the Lyudov Rebellion, but he knew how purely algorithmic that was. Its creativity, its self lay in the manifold, ever-varying functions of a spacecraft.

  And yes, he'd grown fond of this machine, in the way he'd formerly grown fond of his old laserblade or a particular plaid shirt or his and Annie's house on Earth, but that wasn't the same as affection for a human being or a live pet. Somehow he felt it would be wrong to leave without a farewell, but why?

  Would the ship have been hurt? He couldn't believe that. Her words, comradely or concerned as the situation called for, gave simply the illusion of feelings like his. What were hers? Meaningless question. He imagined her taking pleasure in the challenge of a difficult maneuver, he imagined her longing to get back into full connection with others, with the cybercosm, and for that span share in a larger awareness than he would ever know; but this was anthropomorphism on his part. It was as inane as his naming her, privately, Barbara, after the first girl he had loved and never gotten.

  Too long aspace, a man went a bit crazy. By Earth standards, anyhow.

  "Commencing descent," she warned him. Also that was needless. Besides the instruments on the console, he sensed the swingaround. Had the algorithm computed that he would appreciate her gesture?

  Signals flew back and forth. Electrophotonic intelligences meshed. Weight returned, settling Kenmuir in his chair, and the ship climbed down the sky to Port Bowen.

  The thought of Annie lingered in him. His gaze sought Earth. Where was she yonder? Ten years, now, since last he'd heard anything; a dozen years since they parted. Mostly his fault, he supposed. Space-farers were a poor risk for marriage. But theirs had begun so happily, nestled under Ben Dearg in a land whose heights and heather they had nearly to themselves. . . . He sighed. "It's space you love, Ian," she had said—oh, very quietly, with a bare glimmer of tears. "It doesn't leave enough of you for me to live on." Well, he hadn't quite given up hope of someday having a little touslehead or two of his own. But no woman whom a spacefarer would likely meet shared it as Annie once did, except dream-women in the quivira, and he dared not call those up very often.

  Lilisaire waited! A surge passed through him, half lust, half fear, and left him trembling.

  Touchdown into a cradle was feather-gentle. He saw just two other vessels on the field, a globular freighter and a small, slim suborbital that was probably his transport to Zamok Vysoki. In Fireball's day the number could well have been a score.

  Seeking to master himself, and thinking of what Lilisaire might want him for, he looked westward, past the control tower. The spark that was L-5 stood above that horizon. But no, he hadn't set the screen to enhance the stars, and the sun-glare of early Lunar afternoon hid most of them, including the derelict worldlet. Symbolic, an omen?

  Now there was an anachronism for you. Kenmuir's tautness eased with a grin at himself. Unharnessing, he went to get his luggage. After three daycycles of boost at a fourth again Earth's gravity, one-sixth was like blowing along on a breeze.

  Stripped, his cabin had become a hollowness he gladly quitted. A single bag sufficed him. He had packed the rest of his effects; robots would fetch and stow them till he phoned instructions. He n
eed not actually carry anything. His hostess could provide him clothes and such, lavishly. Too much. He preferred his plain personal style, as well as his independence.

  As he was about to command an airlock to open, the ship surprised him. "Fare you well, Ian Kenmuir," she said. "May we travel together again."

  "Why, why, I'd like that," he faltered.

  Meaningless wish. If he was assigned a different craft, its intelligence would, routinely, get a download of everything Barbara knew about him. He would find the personalities indistinguishable—if personality, distinct individuality, could be said to exist in sophotects. What then led her to send him off this humanly?

  He didn't really understand these minds. Did they? Beyond a certain degree of complexity, systems go chaotic, inherently unpredictable and unfathomable even to themselves. No doubt the Teramind saw more deeply, but was that insight absolute, and did it include all of the vast psyche?

  He thrust the question from him. It always gave him an inward shudder. "Until then, Barbara," he mumbled, and signalled the inner valve. It contracted. He passed through the chamber. The outer valve had already withdrawn, when the portal sealed fast to an ascensor shaft in the cradle. Kenmuir stepped onto the platform. It bore him down to the terminal. He emerged.

  The floor gleamed before him, wide and almost empty. The murals along it seemed to mock the triumphs they celebrated, Armstrong's landing, the Great Return, Anson Guthrie founding the base that would become this city, Dagny Beynac bossing construction of the hundredth Criswell energy collector. . . . None dated from the Selenarchy, although that era had seen the Mars colony begun, interstellar missions, Guthrie's and Rinndalir's exodus to Alpha Centauri. Lunarians didn't flaunt public achievements; they were too catlike, individualistic, secretive. . . . The air felt cold.

  A lone man waited, clad in form-fitting black and silver. Kenmuir recognized him, Eythil, a trusted attendant of Lilisaire's. Mars-bred, he stood less tall and more broad than the average Moondweller of his race, strong, dangerous when necessary. His complexion was dark, his hair black and curly, but that was not unusual; many different stocks had gone into the ancestry.

  He saluted, hand to breast. "Greeting and welcome, my captain." His use of his mother tongue, unprompted, was an honorific, implying worth—not status, but inborn worth—equal or nearly equal to the Lunarian. He also refrained from explaining that he would bring the newcomer to his lady, and from asking how the journey had been.

  "To you I am indeed well come, Saljaine," Kenmuir replied likewise. The title had no Earthside equivalent, for Selenarchs had never bestowed rigid ranks on their followers. It might perhaps be rendered "officer," perhaps "faithful henchman."

  They started across the floor. Being a Terran of the Orthosphere, Kenmuir felt obliged to make some conversation. "The port was not quite this deserted" —eerily so—"when I left last year. Has traffic fallen off more, or is it a statistical fluke?"

  "Both are at work, I think," Eythil said. "I have heard of three large ships retired from service in the past thirteen-month, and might learn of more did I consult the official database." The insinuation was that he didn't believe every byte of information was available to everybody, even in such apparently harmless areas as interplanetary commerce.

  Kenmuir, who thought this was true, nodded. "Traffic must have grown sparse, or we'd not see random variations."

  A part of his mind ran through the reasons—some of the reasons. Population decline wasn't one. The original steep drop (which had, for example, left spacious reaches of Scotland open to him in his boyhood and to him and Annie in their marriage) had long since flattened out and was approaching the asymptote of zero growth. Lowered demand for raw materials certainly was a reason: efficient recycling, goods made to last, few if any design changes. But what lay behind it? The old, driving dynamism had faded well-nigh out of people—How? Why?

  Ferocity lashed in Eythil's voice: "Hargh, they will soon swarm again, the ships, when the Habitat comes with its Terrans breeding, breeding. Unless maychance you—" He broke off. Kenmuir couldn't tell whether that was due caution or because a robot was moving across the floor to intercept them.

  Robot, or sophotect? The turret could hold a human-capability computer. If it didn't, the body could be remote-controlled by an intelligence. This was a standard multipurpose model, boxlike, with three different pairs of arms, the four legs lifting its principal sensors to a level with his eyes. Where organic components were not in supple motion, metal shone dull gold.

  It drew close. Musical western Anglo floated out of the speaker: "Your pardon, Captain Kenmuir, Freeholder Eythil."

  They stopped. "What would you?" the Lunarian rapped. It was obvious that Kenmuir, just in from space, would be known; but the system's identification of his companion must give, more than ever, a feeling of being caged.

  "You are bound for your vehicle?" the machine said. "Regrets and apologies. Clearance to lift will be delayed about an hour."

  "What the Q?" Kenmuir exclaimed, amazed.

  "An accidental explosion has occurred just a few minutes ago on Epsilon-93. Do you place the designation? An iceberg lately brought here."

  Kenmuir and, stiffly, Eythil nodded. They hadn't heard of the object, but that was natural. Beneficiated pieces of comet stuff were, as a rule, set on trajectories that took them from the Kuiper Belt into Lunar orbit, there to be refined and sent down. Robotic, utterly routine, the operation hadn't been conducted much in recent decades, but no doubt the work was starting up on a larger scale. The influx of settlers after the Habitat was ready would want more water and air than the Moon currently recycled.

  "Fragments are flying about," the machine continued. "None are expected to crash, but that is as yet not perfectly certain. Until every track is known, Traffic Control is interdicting civilian movement above ground, especially in this vicinity. For about an hour, is the estimate. You landed barely in time."

  Eythil scowled. Kenmuir shrugged, although his impatience was probably sharper.

  "Administration apologizes for any inconvenience," the machine said. "You are invited to spend the time in the executive lounge, with complimentary refreshments."

  Eythil and Kenmuir exchanged a glance. Smiles quirked wry. "Never have I been there," the Lunarian admitted. "You, Captain?"

  "No," Kenmuir replied. "Why not?" Satisfy a slight curiosity. Besides, the public bar and restaurant, big, well-nigh forsaken, would be spooky surroundings.

  The room to which the machine led them was of a more intimate size. Its furniture, massive Earth-style, seemed somehow faded. Flat pictures of space pioneers hung on the walls. The air held a faint simulation of leather and woodsmoke odors. Kenmuir wondered why this retreat was maintained. How often had it seen use since the spaceport was completely cyberneticized? Well, it couldn't be much trouble to keep, and occasions like this doubtless arose once in a while. The system provided for improbabilities.

  He and Eythil took chairs. The machine went to a dispenser. "What is your desire, señores?" it asked. Eythil wanted a Lunarian white wine—the vineyards under Copernicus still produced biologically—and Kenmuir chose ale. The machine touched the panel, the containers arrived, the machine poured into suitable goblets from off a shelf and brought them over. "If you wish anything more, call me, por favor," it said, indicating the nearest intercom input. "I trust you soon may be on your way."

  "Thanks," Kenmuir answered. After all, either it or its controller was sentient. It departed. Kenmuir sipped. A goodly brew, yes. Never mind that molecular machineries had assembled it; the formula was tangy, the liquid cold. "Hadn't you better phone to say we'll be delayed?" he asked Eythil.

  "Nay, not if the wait stretches no longer," the other man said. They both stayed with Anglo. Odd, Kenmuir reflected, what a relaxed attitude to schedules most Lunarians had, when survival might depend on precision. Well, with them timing was practically instinctive, as fast as recovery from a stumble was to an Earthman in his high-gravity home. You got
to know your competences and their safe boundaries.

  "I wonder what exactly went wrong," he remarked. "It sounded like the kind of accident that shouldn't ever happen these days."

  "Thus the cybercosm tells us," Eythil growled.